Unspoken

by Kelly Rimmer

CHAPTER ONE

Paul

I’VE BEEN DEVELOPING a single software application since I was seventeen years old. The sum of my life’s work is 74 million lines of code which, to put it in layman’s terms, enables people to use the internet in a safe and efficient manner. I don’t know all of that code off by heart of course, but if you were to give me any portion of it, I could tell you what it does, and why, and how.

Code is knowable. Understandable. Infallibly rational. Opening my compiler is like wrapping myself in a warm blanket on a cold day. Code is safe and familiar, and I am completely at home and completely in control in that sphere, which is pretty much the polar opposite to my feelings on my relationships with other humans. People are unfortunately illogical creatures, and today, people are ruining my day.

Well, one person specifically.

“Hello, Isabel,” I say to my almost-ex-wife. Her sudden appearance is as unfortunate as it is unexpected. Whenever we find ourselves in the same room these days the tension is untenable, but it’s certain to be even worse today, because this room happens to be in the very vacation home we spent most of the last year squabbling over as we negotiated the separation of our assets.

“You said that I could keep this house—” Isabel starts to say now, but I really don’t like to be reminded that if the divorce was a cruel game, there’s a clear winner, and it’s not me. That’s why I cut her off with a curt, “My name is still on the title for four more days.”

Her nostrils flare. She makes a furious sound in the back of her throat, then closes her eyes and exhales shakily. Isabel is trying to keep her temper in check.

I lived with Isabel Rose Winton for four years, one month and eleven days. I know she likes almond milk in her coffee because she thinks it’s healthier, but that she masks the taste with so much sugar, she may as well drink a soda. I know she sleeps curled up in a little ball, as if she’s afraid to take up space in her own bed. I know she resents her mother and adores her father and brothers. I know she loves New York with a passion, and that she has an astounding ability to pluck threads from a city of 8.5 million people to weave them into a close-knit village around herself. Isabel makes friends everywhere she goes. She never forgets a name and people always remember her, too, even after meeting her just once. Everyone adores her.

Well, almost everyone. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of the woman these days.

“You’re supposed to be on retreat with your team this weekend,” Isabel mutters now. She flashes me a look, but it passes too quickly. I don’t have time to interpret it.

“How do you even know about my retreat?” I ask stiffly, but then I sigh and we both say at the exact same time, “Jess.”

Jessica Cohen is my friend and my business partner. Isabel and Jess are still friends, and they still see each other all the time. But Jess popping up in this conversation makes me uneasy, because she’s the reason I’m at Greenport today. And Jess does so love to meddle...